by Robyn Carr
His eyes darkened, and a muscle in his cheek began to twitch. Without looking down, she could sense that his fists were clenched. “If there is a chance I misunderstood your preference, madam, speak quickly.”
“I do not desire him, but do not place yourself so high above him. Andrew, too, was willing in marriage. You are no better than he; only more experienced.”
Etched on his face was the effort he employed to raise his hands slowly to her upper arms. The anger in his eyes burned into her. He squeezed her arms. “Your memory fails you,” he said hoarsely. “I am much more efficient than Andrew. Though I did not fully realize what I bought, the price I have paid for you is high and you are mine now. Be careful to remember that.”
“You make it difficult to forget. You have my wedding planned, though I had nothing to say of it.”
“If you corner a bull, my pet, do not be surprised to find he will charge.”
“You think I planned what happened,” she said, her eyes smarting with angry tears.
“It happened very easily,” he said with an insolent shrug. “I reserve judgment on your plans, for now.”
“Did you let my father believe that you should meet your due with marriage?”
His frown bore down on her. “Your father did not require any admission of guilt from me before using the threat of his great influence. The truth is irrelevant to him, but know this: you can do me much ill by this virgin’s despair, but no more than you can do yourself. You expose me as a villain only at your own expense; you cannot escape public shame and humiliation if you name me as a rogue who used you against your will. For that your father could see me hanged, which I perceive as slightly more uncomfortable than being firmly led into wedlock.” His finger lifted her chin roughly. “And it would be a lie, for I touched you and you answered me willingly.”
“I did not trap you,” she said in a strained whisper.
“Nonetheless, I am trapped.”
She shook her head in denial and found that he could quiet any argument easily with his lips. Although the quick embrace and hard press of his mouth against hers came as a surprise, gradually her eyes closed, and she did not attempt to resist him. When he released her mouth, she opened her eyes to see that he regarded her with a mocking grin. “Still so eager, my vixen, but unless I was mistaken, you do not know the ecstasy of your reward. You are still a virgin in that sense.”
“You are a wretch,” she accused, seething at his mocking games.
He laughed at her rage and released her. “You need not expect satisfaction too soon, my love. I will find my diversions in London until our wedding day. I don’t want Lord Ridgley to be tempted to do his worst.”
“You leave?” she asked. She heard the panic in her own voice, and to think he might have heard it also almost sent her fleeing from his sight. She raised her chin proudly and took a different pose. “You will not return.”
He regarded her with amusement. “You should hope I flee, petite. Marriage to me may not be all you have dreamed of.” He turned away from the staircase to return to the dining room, as she climbed the stairs to her room. She reasoned that he must have announced her flustered mood, for she was not bothered by anyone, even Evelyn, through what remained of the evening.
He had made his point and left her to sleep on it. That she hungered for some word of love from him was her problem, for he’d made it quite clear he did not love her and marriage was not his desire. Yet there was no one to relieve her of this plight but him.
I hate him, she thought. And with that thought, her anger suddenly fled as her heart was plunged into sudden despair. He hates me. He may always hate me.
The tears that came that night were of another variety. No longer did she lament the absence of words of love and longing. What was the Yankee to think, with all that had transpired, but that she had deliberately tricked him to help her family? Even Paul had nearly confirmed that possibility. When he had touched her, she had yielded, helpless to deny him. If she had been stronger, she would have fought her own feelings.
And now she would wed a man who felt abused and would die before answering her love with his own. If she could not convince him that she had innocently acquiesced to his passion, without plot or contrivance, could she perhaps convince him that marriage with her would not be so horrible? Even if he could never believe that she had fallen in love with him, could she somehow prove that she meant to be a good and loving wife to him, despite the disastrous beginning?
It was shared passion that brought them together. Could love not grow enough to keep them so?
When she rose in the morning in a stronger state of control, it was in her mind to seek him out and apologize for her share of the angry words. She wished to tell him that she understood his ambivalent feelings toward her, but that she would strive to be a good wife, holding nothing back in the effort.
But she found he was already gone.
Tyson sat in the captain’s chair of the Lady Lillian with a half-bottle of rum amidst a generous pile of paperwork. He leaned back in his chair, feet upon the desk, and a large padded parchment braced on his leg. He made smooth strokes with his brush, using watered ink to try to capture the slightly grayed light hair that he remembered showing on the temples of Michael Everly.
Tyson had begun sketching as a pastime early in his youth. He had started with a twig in the dirt, and when he was a little older, he sat on the fence of the corral with parchment and slivers of charcoal in hand, and had captured the graceful lines of a stallion’s flanks. When he was alone with some worry he frequently drew as a means of relieving tension. During the traumatic days leading up to the duel, he had almost absently developed several facial likenesses of the despised man. He had brought them all to England with him. Looking at the various drawings, he sought to make a near perfect one.
When Tyson was sixteen and the long-brewing revolution had exploded into gunfire, the Gervais family had been forced to defend their land and possessions against British attack. His father had died two years later, leaving Tyson, the eldest son at eighteen, as the manager of a large plantation and having to care for a mother and four younger siblings. His entry into manhood, under such a weight of responsibility, had not been graceful. But no one had ever questioned his ability to take on the obligations his father had left behind. He had not resented the burdens and was proud of his ability to meet them.
It was just a year ago, when the youngest in their family had married, that his mother had spoken to him about all that he had accomplished and what he now must do. “You have put your own happiness aside for too long. They are all cared for now. Our family thrives. You must not wait any longer to find something of personal pleasure for yourself.”
He had disregarded her fretting, arranged a footstool under her feet, and told her for the hundredth time that he did not delay in his own happiness. He loved his duty; he was as happy as he had ever expected to be.
“There is more to life than work,” she had pressed.
“I want nothing more than I already have,” he had replied.
“I cannot criticize you, Tyson. You are fully a man and no longer a child for me to command. You do well by your family, your town, and your country. However, I would ask one thing of you—do not commit yourself to a life of misery by knowingly marrying a woman of low virtue.”
Tyson had frowned, accustomed to his family’s criticism of Lenore. “I thought I had given my word that she would not become my wife.”
“I know you think yourself very cautious with her, Tyson, but she has much of your affection. I would not want you compromised by it.”
A mere two months later, his mother had passed away. An epidemic of cholera had claimed many lives that summer, and their family had lost only one. It was not until the quiet of the house became oppressive that he took stock of what she had said and examined his life.
His behavior over the following months had left his brothers and their wives shaking their heads in confusion. And when it
was finally done, he had sailed to England despite their protests. He had thought to find information about Everly, but he had found a great deal more than that.
The ship rocked gently beneath him, and he poured himself another drink. He had done what he intended in the month away from Chappington. The Lady Lillian was still dockside, full of cargo from the English merchants, the agent bribed at high cost to release her, and ready to be towed out in one more day. She would make Virginia by Christmas. He, himself, would stay behind and accommodate the baron. He would return to Chappington, leaving the drawing for his hired man, Mr. Humphrey, to use in an extended search for information about Everly. Then, on the first day of October, he would be married.
He sighed and lifted his mug to take a drink.
“I don’t suppose you have another cup?” came a familiar voice.
He looked up to see Doré Gastión standing inside the cabin door. They had met seventeen years before on a revolutionary battlefield when Doré was a young French militiaman and Tyson a boy defending his home and family. There was no man whom Tyson held as a closer friend. Tyson broke into a wide grin.
All his life, Tyson had learned to control his behavior before business associates, neighbors, and family, allowing only his strength to show and never betraying any vulnerability. But he and Doré had cried together in fear, both of them verging on manhood in the midst of war.
“How do you come to be here, Doré? This is not a good place for a Frenchman.”
Doré smiled. “I am careful with my accent. Unless I drink too much, few people notice.”
“But your name?”
“It is a good aristocratic name,” he shrugged. “You, too, carry a bit of the French blood, and you are American, now in England. Perhaps we are both mad?”
“Undoubtedly,” Tyson said. “I laugh over it every morning as I rise, and I look over my shoulder all through the day. We killed a few of these English, Doré. Do you hate them still?”
“What good is hatred? It gets in the way, does it not?”
“Indeed, it does,” Tyson chuckled, rising to rummage through his shelf for another cup. He poured from the bottle of rum and passed the drink to Doré. Both cups were raised, but it was Doré who made the toast. “To your mother, may she rest in peace.”
Tyson hesitated, but he drank. The effect Doré had on him was at once perfect and disconcerting. Doré was the one man from whom Tyson could not seem to conceal his feelings. When he looked again at his friend, his eyes were misted.
They were equal in size, but opposites in almost every other way. Tyson was dark, while Doré had lighter coloring, brown hair streaked by the sun, and penetrating, dancing blue eyes. The Frenchman’s perennial wide, playful grin contrasted Tyson’s more serious, impatient personality. The Parisian smile had charmed many a lady in a swinging skirt, while Tyson’s hypnotic silver eyes had caused women to shiver in anticipation. Tyson had the hard good looks of a swarthy devil; Doré had the frivolous handsomeness of a young prince.
“You received my letter?” Tyson asked.
“Yes, and when it was possible for me to leave France, I traveled to your home to visit you. But you had already departed.”
“I had not expected you to endure such extensive travel on my behalf, but I knew you would want to be informed of my mother’s death.”
“I thought to pay my respects on behalf of Madam Gervais, who did not approve of me.” Doré laughed good-naturedly. “When we went abroad together, your mother worried and accused. She said I was a bad influence on you. It was much the other way, in my recollection.”
“She liked you, Doré. More than that, she thought of you as another son.”
“Another misguided son,” he chuckled. His expression became serious. “Your brothers, Tyson. They are worried about you.”
“They needn’t be,” he said gruffly, turning away from his friend’s close scrutiny. How like his younger brothers. They seemed to have replaced his mother as nosy guardians. They had no doubt encouraged Doré to travel to England, suspecting they sent the one man Tyson could not ignore to inquire about his welfare.
“I am worried, Ty. I have heard this tale, that you left the woman, Lenore. Mon Dieu, such a wonderful whore. And where did you flee? The Gervais men tell me that you began to court many young virgin ladies. And I have seen you maul so many harlots. You were in a rush, I am told, to marry.”
Tyson had drifted from Lenore on many occasions, but had confronted her with a formal departure after his mother’s death. His pattern had been broken and he had taken a quick, close look at all the marriageable women of Richmond. Tyson turned back toward his friend, raising one dark brow with a broad smirk. “Is it said that I handled myself poorly? I thought it was time to rise above the likes of Lenore Fenton.”
“Bah, it was too sudden a change, my friend. The woman did not take kindly to your abandonment. How is it she tricked you into this duel? As if you have not killed enough English.”
Tyson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know how she tricked me. I did not want any part of a duel, and I knew all the while that the business of her embarrassed reputation was only an act. But I thought the pretense was for the benefit of the Englishman, Michael Everly. I refused to meet him until he began tormenting my family, making his insult a matter for public conjecture, and challenged me in front of spectators by calling me a coward. He would not cease until I gave him his chance to defend the honor of his fiancée.” Tyson shook his head and took another drink. “Such a farce had never before been played for Richmond. The town quite enjoyed it. But I have never killed with pleasure.”
“Mademoiselle Fenton did not pressure you before your mother’s death. It is clear that the great Richmond matriarch, Madam Gervais, held even Lenore in check. But how much time after Madam’s death did she wait before pressing her desires?”
“Three months,” Tyson confirmed. “Maybe four.”
Doré laughed in good humor. “Your little mama, she carried a big stick. A tiny, silver-haired widow who had but to blink her eyes and whisper to bring four large boys to do her bidding. I never understood how she could hold such dominion over people. Yet even I shook when she scolded me, as if I were some boy to be mothered.”
“She appeared soft,” Tyson said in fond memory. “But there was no mistaking her command.” And then he added very softly, “She died too soon.”
Doré walked over to the desk, looking down at the likeness of Michael Everly,. “And that is why you are here?” he said, pointing his cup toward the parchment.
“I would like to learn something of this Englishman who descended from such high, noble circles. No one seems to know anything about him.”
“What will you gain, Tyson?”
“He had no connection in America, but his sudden engagement with Lenore still mystifies me. I should like to know how he came to Virginia, if nothing more. And there is the matter of restitution. I did kill him.”
“It is regarded as self-defense in your country. But here?” Doré gave a low whistle. “And your brothers tell me that you have achieved some business agreement with an English lord. Tyson, I worry that you have gone mad.”
“It was a prime opportunity. We are not friends with the British, but there is money to be made by both countries if we are clever and careful. We speak about the war only a little, and if we hold each other in any contempt, when there is money at stake our dislike is a great secret. I have never let my personal feelings keep me from making money.”
“You have enough money.”
“The family grows,” Tyson said.
Doré sighed. “Very well, I will help you with this business. We will find this Everly family, settle your contracts, and go on to a country where we are welcome. Your brothers tell me you are bent on taking a long rest away from home, so you will come to France and be my guest.” He took a drink and grimaced. “And we will drink decent wine.”
“I don’t need any help,” Tyson said, not botheri
ng to hide his irritation.
Doré laughed. “That tone works on the brothers, my friend, but we have been through too much for such a lie.”
“I must stay here for a while, Doré. My business cannot be completed quickly.”
“You do not make me welcome,” Doré said suspiciously.
“The baron of Chappington, Lord Ridgley, has accepted an American guest. Do you think it wise to test his good mood by adding a Frenchman?”
Doré shrugged. “This marvelous world. So many possibilities.”
“Not so many as you might think. He is a staunch Englishman.”
Doré smiled lazily. “I am a rich Frenchman.”
Tyson stiffened, bracing himself. “I am going to marry the baron’s daughter.”
Surprise showed on Doré’s face for only an instant, melting into a wide grin. “I will make you a good witness then.”
“Knowing you, I shouldn’t let you within an ocean of her,” Tyson grumbled.
“She is pretty, then? I should think so. You left the most magnificent whore in all the world.”
“Of course, they know nothing of her,” Tyson hastened to tell him.
“I should think not,” Doré laughed. “These British are hard on such etiquette.”
“I am not sure it would be wise for you to attend me.”
“But no, Tyson. This poor family, they must think Americans so ill-tempered if they know only you. A little of the French charm, it will soothe your bride. Tell me, does the baron hold a pistol to your head for the vows?”
Tyson sighed heavily. “I have given the man fifty thousand pounds. If he wishes that I oblige him further by marrying his daughter, I cannot see the wisdom in refusing. I will trust you to behave yourself. She is quite young.”
“Young? Yes?” Tyson mumbled a response and Doré leaned forward. “Speak up, Tyson. I do not hear you.”
“She is seventeen,” Tyson said more loudly.
